Live and Die Here
by Erikthephantom07
Summary: In 1899, the streets of New York City echoed with whispers of an escaped gang member bent on revenge. The newsies who peddle the papers of Joseph Pulitzer are faced with a crisis that could put an end to all that they have fought for: survival.
1. The Fine Life

Inspired by POISONIVORY'S "BRIMSTONE" found at http/www.poisonivory. (this story has a small instance of slash is being disregarded for my story)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Newsies (  ) and I never will, so no money's being made at all here, and I'm not responsible for any of the events related to or occurring in "Brimstone." Those are PoisonIvory's.

Kloppman, the overseer of the Newsboys Lodging House in Manhattan, made his daily trek up the staircase, pausing only once to pick up a hat that had been discarded the night before. Tucking it under his arm, he pushed the door open to the bedroom.

It never ceased to amaze him how the newsies had the same routine every morning, yet they somehow always managed to be surprised at the wake-up call. Kloppman looked for a moment at the sleeping faces, contemplating whether or not to go through with his plan. He walked up to one of the bunk beds, surveying the person on the top.

"BLINK!" he cried. The person in question, a boy with sun bleached hair and a pleasant smile, almost fell off of the bed which he occupied. The boy in the bed underneath, a diminutive Italian with a short temper, groaned loudly and covered his face with his tattered sheets.

"Not today, Klopp," he growled as Kloppman helped Kid Blink, the top boy, regain his balance.

"Everyday, Race," Kloppman answered without missing a beat. He was far too used to the routine by now to be taken by pity. At least, that's what he told himself every morning.

"Up! Up!" he continued, moving on to his next victim. By now, most of the newsies were groaning in their beds, readjusting themselves on their pillows and trying desperately to fall back asleep. "Pie-Eater! _Pie-Eater!_"

"I don...wanna…."

"Up! Does the world wait for yous boys? No! Up!" Kloppman turned his attention to a tall boy in pink long john's. "Skittery…"

Skittery was already up and dragged himself off of the top bunk before Kloppman could reach him. "'M up, already," he snarled, running a hand through his mess of brown hair.

"That's a first," Kloppman retorted, a smile tugging at his face. "Cowboy!"

"Where's me patch?" Blink mumbled to himself, kneeling on his bed and rummaging through his sheets, his left hand covering his useless left eye. "I put it righ' on the edge…" He glanced down with his good eye, and could just barely make out his bunkmate's arms lighting his morning cigar. "Race…"

"Don't know what yer talkin bout, Kid," Racetrack Higgins answered quickly, before Blink had even asked the question.

"Hey, dis ain't funny," Blink said, looking around desperately for any sign of his eye patch.

"I tink it is," a voice mumbled in the bunk next to him. Blink spun around, momentarily uncovering his left eye to prevent himself from again falling off the bunk.

"What'd ya do wit it, Jack?"

"I didn't do nothin wit it, but I bet I knows who did," Jack Kelly, the oldest newsie and the unquestionable leader, shrugged. He turned over on his side to face Blink and nodded his head down at Racetrack.

"Alright! Alright!" Race conceded loudly, slapping Blink's patch onto the top bunk. "An ya needed Jack ta figure it out for ya too, didn' ya, Blink?"

"Nuh-uh!" Blink growled, tying it quickly around his head. "I knew ya had it, I just thought I'd give ya a chance."

"Sure ya did…"

"So what's the leg say, Crutch?" Jack asked the occupier of the bed below him.

"Can't tell, Jack," Crutchy, a curly headed boy with a bad leg, answered. "It's too cold."

"Just cos you're talkin doesn't mean you're up!" Kloppman interrupted suddenly. All four of them turned.

"We's up, Klopp!" Jack laughed, groaning as he raised himself into a sitting position, throwing his long legs over the side of the bed.

"I'll believe that when I see you actually _out_ of bed," Kloppman answered sharply, tapping on yet another bunk bed and frightening the owner. "Up, Mush!"

Kloppman was actually pleased with that morning. By the time the boys came flying down the stairwell, it had only been thirty minutes since he'd woken them. That was a record, he noted with satisfaction as he waved them off.

"Sunday, boys!" Jack announced with satisfaction as the newsies hurried nearer to the Newsie Square, where the sisters of St. Anthony were at their usual breakfast wagon, handing out food to the street kids.

"Ah, ya know what dat means!" Pie-Eater said excitedly, quickening his pace.

"Yeah, a heavier edition dan usual," Skittery groaned, exhaling loudly.

"An extra bit o' coffee an' slice o' bread!" Blink said, ignoring Skittery and throwing his arm around Pie-Eater's shoulders. They virtually ran to the wagon, hands outstretched within feet of it.

"Mornin' sistas," Race smiled, taking his hat off to them.

"Is there a good headline this morning, boys?" one of the nuns, Sister Sophia, asked pleasantly as she handed Race a large chunk of bread.

"Ain't seen it yet," Jack shrugged.

"But I bet it's great!" Blink finished, his mouth full.

"Where's your manners, Kid?" Race said, slapping Blink's head, causing the latter to choke on his food. "S'what ya deserve, chump!"

"You know what's e'en better dan the food today?" Bumlets continued as the newsies, all fed, made their way down the alleys to the New York World's Distribution Center. "Specs is outta da Refuge."

This caused an uproar. "Has it been tree months already?" Snipeshooter cried.

"Nah, 's been two, and dat's all he was in for, muttonhead," Race rolled his eyes, swatting at Snipes's head. The smaller boy, however, dodged him easily.

"What time?" Dutchy asked, searching for a clock.

"Dey usually let kids out around noon," Jack said smartly, everyone quieting as he spoke. Jack was widely regarded as an expert on the Refuge, among other things as well. Jack, out of all of the newsies, had spent the most time in the Refuge, a "rehabilitation" center for misguided street kids. In other words, it was just a cheap scam for the Warden, Snyder, to get extra money. Jack had done a few sporadic months in it over the years, culminating in one attempted escape and finally a triumphant one on the top of Teddy Roosevelt's carriage. "After yous finish your morning edition, hop over an see if he's out."

With the prospect of seeing Specs after two months as incentive, the newsies hurried to the Distribution Center, not even bothering to look at the headlines before buying. Most bought either thirty or twenty, with the exception of Jack's usual one hundred.

"So what's da headline?" Mush asked, plopping himself on the wood next to Jack and rubbing his nose with his hands. February in New York, even when it wasn't snowing, was cold.

"Somethin' about…" Jack read the top, and his face visibly brightened. "Remember yesterday's headline? Bout the Philippians, or whatever? We're still at war!"

This caused an even greater uproar than Specs' release. Mr. Wiesel, the distributor "lovingly" referred to by the boys as "Weasel", was suddenly swamped with demands for more papers.

"Thank you, Philippians!" Race cried, punching his fist in the air. "I'll get 'em all down at Sheepshead!"

"Ain't da Philippians a Bible book?" Blink wondered, thumbing through the rest of the paper.

"When'd ya become smart, Blink? Besides, who da hell cares what it's called? We got a real headline!" Race laughed.

"Customers will," Jack said pointedly. "Hey Wease!"

"It's Philippines!" Weasel called irritably.

"Phil – e – peens," Race said slowly. "Got it. Well, I'm off, boys!" With that, he took quickly to the slowly awakening streets of New York, making off for the place that earned him his nickname, "Racetrack."

"Who ya sellin wit, Jack?" Blink asked hopefully.

Jack sighed. "Fine, Blink! But jus' dis once, alright?"

"You got it!"

The two made their way down into the city, not really caring where they went, as long as they remained in Manhattan. The headline generated a lot of attention, people worrying that another Spanish-American war was imminent, so that neither Blink nor Jack had to worry about outselling the other.

"I ain't even read da rest o' da pape," Blink said as they both stood together for a short rest, rubbing their cold hands together.

"I did," Jack shrugged. "Not too much else. Treaty wit' Spain's still up in da air, somethin 'bout an escaped gang member, and I tink some rich girl's getting married—"

"Escaped gang member's important!" Blink gasped, ripping through a paper. "People get scared an wanna hear about it! What page?"

"One, idiot."

"Oh…" Blink quickly scanned the front page, finally finding a small article about a notorious gang member just escaped while being transported from a federal prison. "What's dis word, Jack?" he asked, pointing out the offending word.

"'Lewis', I tink," Jack responded, squinting his eyes as he read it. "Looks like a name or somethin. I heard o' da Lewis gang before," he added, blowing hot air on his nose.

"Me too, I think," Blink said, staring at the word as if trying to remember where.

"Real big bout six or seven years ago. You wasn't wit us then."

"Dey from Manhattan?"

"Nah. Dey went wherever." Jack looked up at the deceptively bright sun and sighed. "Betcha in Santa Fe it's real warm now."

"Yeah?" Blink asked, tightening his grip on his arms and stamping his feet. "How can it be warm? It's winter dere too, ain't it?"

Jack laughed and swung an arm around Blink's shoulder. "It's a lot warmer dan dis, Kid."

_The city was at once breathtaking and terrifying. His family had lived outside of New York as long as he could remember, though his father had gone work there everyday. They hadn't been terribly poor, he was told later, only comfortable enough to get by._

_That had all changed in the fire. He was told when he woke up, his eye heavily bandaged, that is parents' house had burnt down and that he was lucky that the police had been able to rescue him. That was all he remembered of the fire. He didn't even know how it'd started. In fact, that was pretty much all he knew of his previous life. Try as he might, he couldn't remember a thing about his past, including his name. The people at the Hudson Street Home for Boys called him "Kid Blink", though he didn't know why. All he knew was that he was supposed to go to New York and live with his uncle, his brother off fighting in Spain. _

_It had become very clear from the moment he set foot in his uncle's house who was in charge. His uncle didn't bother to divulge any hints as to Blink's past or who his parents were. He had simply proceeded to tell him that Blink was in charge of bringing in money, despite his meager age of nine, and if he didn't comply there would be reprisals._

_Kid didn't know what 'reprisals' meant, but he soon figured out the general gist. He'd go out begging, and if he didn't come back with enough his uncle would beat him. Hard. So he'd resorted to any way possible to gather the needed money, going from begging to stealing. He found it wasn't a very difficult transition. _

_That all changed when he tried to pickpocket a newsboy three years later. The kid had been standing on a street corner, shouting about the end of the world, not paying the least bit of attention to his surroundings. _

_Blink could see that his pocket was full of pennies, that edition of the paper flying out of the boy's hands as people scrambled for a copy. Blink slowly advanced on the boy who, on closer inspection, was at least a year older than him. Blink had learned to let age not deter him. He'd grown very skilled at pick pocketing._

_As his hand touched the coins inside the other boy's pocket, however, he realized that he wasn't good enough. His wrist was enclosed in a tight grip within seconds, and the other boy shot around, twisting Blink's arm painfully._

_"Wanna tell me what you was tryin ta do?" he demanded, continuing to twist Blink's arm until the latter was sure it would snap._

_"I just needed money!" Blink cried, trying desperately to free himself._

_"Don't we all, kid, but you ain't havin _my_ money," he growled, seeming even more incensed by Blink's lack of a hard accent. In the boy's mind, this was just some sorry, bored rich kid._

_"Alright! I'm sorry!" Blink pleaded desperately. He'd had broken bones before, but none of them had taken this long to actually break. _

_"If ya need money, why don't ya jus' get workin like da rest of us?"_

_"I'm sorry!" he repeated._

_"Dis kid givin you trouble, Cowboy?" another newsboy, just a little older looking than Blink asked, rushing over to he and 'Cowboy', cracking his knuckles._

_"Nah, Race, ain't nothin I can't handle," Cowboy said menacingly. "Watch me papes, Race, me and da kid've gotta talk." Taking him roughly by the scruff of the neck, Cowboy dragged Blink into an alleyway. "What's yer name, kid?"_

_"Uh…" Blink stared blankly at Cowboy, wondering if he was about to die._

_"What's da matta wit ya? Nobody home?" Cowboy asked, tapping him roughly on the side of the head. "What's wit da patch?" he asked, reaching for the eye patch on Blink's face. "Dis a gag?"_

_"No!" Blink insisted, trying to squirm free of Cowboy's grasp._

_"Ain't dat easy, kid. Dis's a good trick, but let's get rid of it for now," Cowboy said, and despite Blink's best efforts, he succeeded in removing the patch from Blink's eye. They both froze, staring at each other in equal horror. They remained like that for a long time, Cowboy's eyes fixed on Blink's one. Finally, after at least two minutes, he cleared his throat. "Ya need a job, kid?"_

_Blink nodded, throat too tight to speak._

_ "I can getcha one. Pay's decent, long as the headline's good." Cowboy surveyed the rest of Blink, seeing the obvious dark bruises and old marks from his uncle. "I can also getcha a place ta stay. Would'ya like dat?"_

_Blink nodded again._

_"What's yer name, kid?"_

_"Blink," he finally said. "Kid Blink."_

_"'M Jack Kelly," Cowboy said, handing Blink his eye patch. "C'mon."_


	2. Tales from the Lounge Sofa

"Beat again, boys!" Race exclaimed triumphantly, pulling the money on the table towards him. "Sorry, Specs. Two months an' ya still ain't got it."

Specs simply stared at the money Race was pocketing, his face full of disbelief.

"You're jus' a thief, Race," Blink laughed, shaking his head.

"Ah, they'll earn it back tomorrah."

"Klopp!" Skittery called, glad to turn his attention from the card game. "Can'tcha put more wood on da fire?"

"Not unless ya wanna gimme twenty cents!" Kloppman retorted without looking up from his books. All of the newsies were inside that night, an uncommon occurrence at eight in the evening. The cold outside was simply unbearable, so they huddled close together, the combined body heat of around twenty boys making it slightly more comfortable inside than out.

"I've got da rest of da papes we didn' sell, Klopp," Mush offered, carrying a large stack of the World's evening edition. "'Stead of eatin 'em, we might as well burn 'em."

Jack was sitting in the midst of all of them in an old chair, reading bits of the only remaining – which even he only succeeding in selling a few copies of – to the other newsies. Some listened for the words, others listened simply for something to do. "'…Which is why police fear—'"

"What don' da bulls feah?" Race muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. They laughed, Jack not least among them.

"'Why police fear da mysterious murder of Mr. Partridge is a return ta da days o' da Lewis gang.' If dey was so scared of 'em, why didn' dey jus' keep 'im locked up?" Jack rolled his eyes, the others laughing at the incompetence of the police.

"Dey couldn't keep _you_ locked up, Cowboy," Snipeshooter pointed out.

"Yeah, but I ain't no murderer," Jack shot back. "Yet," he added with a wink which they all appreciated.

"Let's hear abou' dat one again, Jack," Crutchy said, always a sucker for wild adventure stories. "Tell us about how ya got out on Roosevelt's carriage."

Most of the older newsies rolled their eyes and groaned good-naturedly. The younger newsies remained enthralled. Jack glanced around. "Not tonight, maybe. Tomorrow, how bout? If it's still dis cold."

Someone in the back corner sneezed. Everyone stopped. "Who is it tonigh', cos you're sleepin outside," Race growled. Blink quickly ran his hand under his nose, hoping that nobody would notice.

"Nice try, Kid," Skittery laughed. "See ya tomorrow."

"I ain't leavin!" Blink said, crossing his arms. "Dere's jus' dust in da air, is all."

"Dust dat'll get da rest of us sick!" Mush countered.

"I ain't leavin!"

"Nah, you don't have ta leave," Jack said in a final tone. "But you're sleepin down here tanight, Kid. It's only fair."

"Fine…" he snarled, retrieving the blankets from his bed upstairs.

"'Night, Kid," they laughed as they made their way to the bunks.

Blink muttered incoherently until he settled uncomfortably onto a sofa.

The next day's headline was enough to cheer up even the usually pessimistic Skittery. In big, bold letters, the New York World screamed: PEACE AT LAST! SENATE APPROVES SPAIN TREATY. Each newsie bought at least fifty papers, and all were gone by the afternoon edition.

"Dis is da best headline since da war broke out!" Crutchy exclaimed as they sat for a well deserved lunch at _Tibby's_. "I can't believe our luck! All dose mothers waitin for deir sons! Perfect!"

"I'm havin dinner tonight _an'_ seein Medda!" Specs proclaimed happily, about 60 cents sitting on the table in front of him.

"I'm buying my brudda and sisters loads o' candy!" Bumlets said happily, halfway out of his seat already.

"Dis'll feed everyone for a whole week!" Snipe sighed, thinking of the large family waiting for him at home.

Jack was staring at the nearly 50 cents he was holding. He just needed a few more dimes…He was distracted from his thoughts by Race jumping quickly from his chair.

"Where're ya off ta?" he asked as Race hurried towards the door.

"Where else?" Race laughed, and they all knew he was headed straight for the tracks.

The door of _Tibby's_, however, almost smacked him in the face as he reached for the handle. Race took a few unbalanced steps backwards, saved from falling only by Mush, who'd quickly jumped to his aide. Two large, red headed boys walked in and surveyed the crowd menacingly.

"Kelly," one of them said simply, in an almost Irish accent.

"Righ' here," Jack said evenly. "I ain't goin ta Brooklyn, not on a day like this," he added, gesturing to the freezing winds outside. He'd already guessed where they'd come from.

"Well dat's why Brooklyn came ta _you_, Jackie-boy," a new voice, not belonging to either of the red heads, declared. Most of the Manhattan boys stiffened, staring in shock at the door. A new boy walked in between the red heads, who parted quickly for him. He wasn't quite as tall as either of them, but the confidence and menace he exuded silenced anyone's thoughts on him…that, and the large, gold tipped cane he had tucked in his belt.

"Wha'da ya hear, Spot?" Jack asked, standing and walking over to the leader of the Brooklyn newsies.

"Dis n' dat," Spot Conlen responded, no vocal intonation giving any hint as to why he was really there. Jack and Spot spit into their own hands and then shook each other's, a sign that they recognized each other as leaders and respected each other. Spot, though he gave nothing away on his face or in his voice, was obviously not happy. "We needs ta talk, Jackie-boy," he said, only a little quieter than before.

"Heah?"

"Outside," Spot said, waiting to be obeyed.

Jack looked at him for a moment, then turned to the other newsies. "Blink, Mush, ya wanna come wit us for a minute?"

Whether they did or not was out of the question. Both were immediately at Jack's side, and the three Manhattan newsies followed Brooklyn out the door. As it closed, Race turned to the others. "Five to one says dis ain't no good."

"Bum odds," Skittery muttered, watching Jack, Blink, and Race until they disappeared with a frown.

"Why yous in Manhattan, Spot?" Jack demanded as soon as _Tibby's_ was out of sight.

"Can' I takes a walk in any part o' the city I want?" Spot said dismissively, not bothering to turn to face Jack. Blink raised an eyebrow at Jack but said nothing. Spot finally stopped walking when they reached an alley. He nodded curtly to his boys, and they took sentry duty at its mouth.

"C'mere, Jack," Spot said suddenly, placing his feet apart and his cane in between. Mush and Blink tensed, but Jack pretended not to notice the threatening gesture.

"Yous in _my _territory, Spot," he said coolly, "Don't forget it."

"Dat ain't impoitant now," Spot snapped, his indifferent demeanor slowly giving way to the anger Jack had been expecting. "Look, I ain't gonna be naming names, but I wants answers."

Jack glanced at Blink and Mush before speaking. It was clear that all three of them had no idea what Spot was talking about. "I got no idea what yous talking about, Spot," Jack answered frankly.

"Den let me _enlighten_ ya, Kelly. You musta read bout dat Partridge fella killed by da Lewis gang, righ?"

Jack shrugged. "Sure I read 'bout it."

"Partridge ran our lodging house. Decent fella. I wants ta know why da gang would want dat old man dead," Spot insisted, as if Jack was hiding the answers from him.

"How'm I s'pposed to know, Spot?" Jack asked, but Blink couldn't help but notice that his expression was suddenly closed and wary.

"Don' act dumb wit me, _Kelly_," Spot snarled, taking a step closer to Jack, emphasizing the last name. "Just cos your boys don't know bout your daddy don't mean I don't, Sullivan."

"He wasn' in da gang!" Jack said vehemently, purposefully avoiding Blink and Mush's confused eyes.

"Yeah, but he knew 'em pretty well, didn' he?" Spot said, raising an eyebrow. "What'd Partridge have ta do wit 'em?"

Jack shrugged, growing visibly agitated. "My pop didn' tell me what he did every night, Spot. Why don't ya go ask him, den, huh? And leave me and my boys outta dis."

"Can' do dat, Jackie-boy," Spot shrugged, his blue eyes never leaving Jack's face. "Ya see, we gots it on pretty good infamation dat Lewis is hidin heah in Hattan. Maybe gettin some help from an old friend's son…?" Spot added casually.

Jack clenched his fists. "You'd better be clearin out, Spot. It's gettin cold out heah."

"Nah," Spot continued in that deceptively casual voice. "I'd say it's heatin up. I'll be watchin ya, Kelly."

Jack didn't respond, not trusting himself to speak. He watched in silence as Spot snapped to his boys, and they were soon gone.

"Jack…?" Mush began, but Jack shook his head sharply. "Not now, Mush," he growled, turning quickly and striding back to _Tibby's_. "By da way," he said suddenly while they were still out of sight of _Tibby's_. He stopped them dead in their tracks. "Not a word ta any of 'em," he warned in a low voice, "or I swear I'll soak ya both." With that, he returned to the restaurant in silence.

That afternoon, Jack took his edition and left with no selling partner, not talking to anyone. Blink and Mush shrugged off the questions from the other newsies, but quickly left to an obscure part of Manhattan to talk.

Blink had just settled into the sofa for the fourth night in a row, finally finding a comfortable position, when Racetrack burst through the door. Kloppman, in the process of locking it, was almost thrown back. Stifling a cough, Blink jumped up in time to save the old man from an embarrassing fall.

"Y'alright, Klopp?" he asked, glancing up to see who the assailer was. It was, unsurprisingly, Racetrack, back from his evening gambling.

"Blink!" he cried, slamming the door shut behind him. "Sorry, Klopp," he said quickly, and returned his attention to Blink. "Y'ain't gonna believe it!" Race was pacing up and down the lobby like a wild man, Blink attempting to retie his patch around his eye.

"What da hell you talkin abou', Race?" he growled, fighting the exhaustion.

"We was all watchin, da horses was doin great (mine was winnin!), when all da sudden, BAM! Some gun goes off and dis guy falls right onta da track, and I mean _right onta_ it! Under da horses! Ya shoulda seen it, Kid!"

"Glad I didn't!" Blink laughed, sitting back down on the sofa.

"Aw, but he got all trampled an' everythin! It was great! Horses was fine an' all." Race exclaimed, plopping onto the seat next to him. Within seconds, however, he resumed his excited pacing.

"Who killed 'im?" Blink asked, kicking off his shoes and settling back down.

"You ain't gonna believe it! Da Lewis gang, Blink! I was in da same place as dem! Ain't dat great!"

Blink rolled his eye with a grin. "Ya lucky _you_ ain't dead, Race. Dey's bad news, ya know?'

Race shrugged. "Who cares? Dey're famous! Da pape fellas was all dere axing questions, an' I answered dem, I said I seen it all!"

"Alright, ya hot air artist! You didn't see nothin' and you know it!"

"I saw some fella wit a beard walkin away whiles everyone was walking forward," Race shrugged, as if that was solid evidence. "'Sides, it's nothing I don' do during woik!"

"There's lots of fellas with beards, Race. Ain't ya goin to bed now? I'm tired."

"How can ya tink abou' sleep, Kid!" Race demanded.

"Cos I gotta get up at dawn tomorrow!"

"But dis is headline stuff!"

"Then tell me about it in da mornin! Night, Race!"

"Night, bum," Race muttered, and then flew up the stairs, soon followed by the sound of angry boys waking up before they were supposed to.

"Lucky I'm sleepin down here again, eh Klopp?" Blink laughed, pulling the blanket up to his shoulder.

"Lucky for you," Kloppman sighed, making his way up to calm the din.


	3. The Ballat of Francis and Lewis

"Dat's _two_, Kelly," Spot snarled, cornering Jack in another alleyway the next day. "_Two_, an' ya still ain't telling me why!"

"Dat'd be because I don' know, Spot," Jack maintained with a sigh, readjusting the papers under his arm. "Don' you have Brooklyn ta run?"

Spot glared at him for a moment. "Can' run it when da boys is all fearin for deir lives, Jackie-boy. Now are ya gonna tell me, or am I gonna hafta force ya?"

Jack shook his head. "I ain't scared of ya, Spot. An' I don' know. Get back to yer papes, I know even yous gotta sell 'em."

Spot surveyed him coldly for another long moment, and then turned sharply on his heel and left. He glanced back at the mouth of the alleyway. "I _know_ ya know, Kelly. Dis jus' stupid."

Jack waited until he was gone and then leaned back against the wall. This was insane. He rarely saw the temperamental leader of Brooklyn a few weeks ago, only once or twice a month, but it was now two times in a week! And try as he might, he couldn't continue avoiding Spot's questions forever.

Back at the Lodging House, all but deserted save for Kloppman and a sick little boy, Jack went into the washroom and silently removed a loose brick. Inside was an old, ripped photograph and an even older tin can. Sparing only a small glance at the photograph, he opened the can and dropped the pennies he'd made that day inside. He tried to suppress the excitement inside as he surveyed the money. The papers tucked under his arm reassured his excitement: when those were sold, he would have enough to finally get on that train to Santa Fe, New Mexico.

It had been his dream ever since he was a child. He'd had the comic books and the promise of his father that, after a few loose ends had been tied up, the family would move out west to Santa Fe. Jack believed him wholeheartedly. Why shouldn't he? He saw his father come home every night, drunk, granted, but with a pocket full of change. He'd wink at Jack and rattle the coins, the excitement growing in Jack's mind. They'd been so close to leaving when it had all gone downhill.

_His father was home late that night – very late. His mother was worried sick, and when the man finally came home, both she and Jack were shocked. He was covered in ash and coughing from an obvious inhalation of smoke. _

_"What happened?" Mrs. Sullivan cried, for she had seen something that neither Jack nor his father had noticed – blood._

_He glanced down at his hands, guilt spreading over his face. "Oh, that. Scraped it up a bit-"_

_"I've never asked! Not once! Not after all the times you've come back with money in your pockets and no explanation whatsoever, but _not_ this time, Patrick!"_

_"Would ya calm down?" he implored her, seating himself to stop the shaking in his legs. "Francis," he said, turning to Jack, "go to your room, boy."_

_"Leave him be, Patrick! We're leaving unless you tell us whose blood that is!"_

_"It's…" Patrick Sullivan glanced around the room for help, Jack noticing the panicked look in his eyes. "Just…the boys and I... we met up…look we don't have to do this-"_

_"Finish or say goodbye, Patrick!" she warned, grabbing Jack's hand. _

_"It's just some kid's! Nobody important!" _

_Mrs. Sullivan's eyes widened. "'Some kid's!'" she shrieked. "Did you kill a child, Patrick!"_

_"He ain't dead!" Patrick Sullivan explained, a fact which seemed to bother him immensely. "There was a fire…I'm real tired, Clara, can't this wait?"_

_"NO! You and that gang! Why-"_

_"For us! If I do what they tell me they give me money! Santa Fe, Clara, remember? I have enough now, look!" He emptied his ashen pockets onto the table, money spilling onto the surface. Jack, however, couldn't take his eyes off of the bloodstains on his father._

_"Stop staring, Francis!" Patrick exclaimed, his hands shaking visibly. "We're all leaving tonight! We're getting out of New York and going back to Santa Fe. Remember the stories I told ya, Francis?" he began, leaning down towards his son. Jack involuntarily stepped back. _

_"You're staying here," Clara Sullivan demanded. "I'll not stay with you, Patrick! We're through! This is ridiculous!"_

_A loud knock was suddenly heard at the door. Patrick went, if possible, even paler and jumped at the sound._

_"Who's that? Your friends? Are they back now?" Clara hissed angrily. "They want their money?" She threw out her hands and scraped the coins off of the table, sending them flying in all directions._

_"Clara, NO!" Patrick cried, falling to his knees to retrieve them._

_"You're a slave to that money just as you are to them. Well _goodbye_, Patrick! We don't need this," she gestured towards the steadily increasing knocking, "and we don't need _you_." She grabbed Jack's hand and rushed to the door, flinging it open. She caught her breath as the knockers entered the room. For a moment, Jack thought that she was just surprised, until she collapsed onto the floor, her hands grabbing at a bloody knife in her gut. _

_"SULLIVAN!" a voice roared. Jack stared at his mother, mouth open. He only barely registered four men burst past him and corner his father in the kitchen, where Patrick Sullivan was still on his knees. _

_"I'm…" his father whimpered._

_"You left the scene with the money, I want it back! You didn't finish the job and now the bulls are after us. Hand it over or the kid dies, too." _

_Patrick registered the full meaning of those words almost immediately, but didn't rise in defense or grief of his wife. "She threw it on the floor…" he said almost inaudibly. _

_"Pick 'em up," a large, bearded man growled. Patrick nodded sheepishly, thoughtlessly grabbing all of the coins in his path. Jack, meanwhile, was staring at his mother's body in total shock. The hot blood was still oozing from the gash in her chest, her eyes wide with pain and horror. He ran his small fingers lightly over her face, and then turned, painfully slowly, to face the four men in front of his father._

_"You…" he muttered quietly, rising to his feet. _

_One of the smaller men glanced around and tapped the tallest on the shoulder. Jack tried to run into the tallest, seeing him as the leader, but was easily flicked aside._

_"Francis…" Patrick moaned._

_"Pick it up!" the bearded one roared. Jack was swimming in and out of consciousness, trying to blink away the dark spots threatening to engulf him, when the door to his house burst open. Jack was close enough to a table to quickly slide under it, hiding from the group in the kitchen and the new arrivals._

_Shots suddenly rang out. Someone, his father's, arm was shot. Jack watched him go down, clutching his right arm as blood trickled through his fingers. "Stop!" Someone cried. The group in the kitchen tried to exit out the back door. A new group of cops surged in that way. The house was surrounded "Stop! You are under arrest!"_

_Jack watched silently as his father and his father's "friends" were dragged out of the house, the police taking in the body of the woman and leaving themselves. _

Readjusting the papers under his arm as he stood, the brick carefully laid back where it had been, Jack sighed. There was just one problem with his grand plan: breaking it to the newsies.

Blink was beginning to find the sofa in the lounge very comfortable. He'd been there for almost a week, the cold he'd somehow gotten only growing worse. He was always tired, even though he forced himself to sleep at what he considered a very early hour – midnight.

Selling hadn't been particularly wonderful that day. Most people seemed to be shaky on the streets, the steady flow of Lewis gang killings keeping them frightened. It was all that anyone talked about. The newsies themselves had sat down earlier that day and tried to figure out the connections between the killings.

"Could be anythin'," Race said, taking a long inhale on his cigar. He and most of the older newsies were sitting around a table in _Tibby's_, trying to sell the remnants of the morning edition to the staff. "I mean, da Lewis was never known for bein' merciful, so why not jus' knock off anybody ya see? I seen da mob do it," he added with a shrug.

"But da Lewis gang was never da mob," Skittery sighed in annoyance. "Ya obviously don' remember dem. Dey had a few people outside demselves who was doin' things for dem, but dey mostly kept ta demselves."

They mulled it over in their heads for a few moments, trying to remember what little they could about the gang that was so notorious in their youth. "Maybe dey's takin' out da people who was bad to dem," Mush offered with a shrug, his memory of them only small snippets of words his mother had mentioned.

"Makes sense," Bumlets nodded. "Dey always had reasons for doin' things."

"Maybe dose who landed 'em in jail," Specs added, distracted momentarily as he accosted a passerby.

The newsies seemed to agree on that point. It was the only option that made any sense. "Well, let's look at the murders," Snoddy began, immediately taking charge. It was widely known that he could read the best out of all the newsies, and he lacked the heavy accent. Like Blink, he'd come to the newsies with little or no trace of an accent, but the amount of time spent among them rubbed off on them, especially Blink, who'd been younger when he'd joined. He was also the oldest, or at least one of the oldest, though Jack was the unquestioned leader.

"Ya got Partridge down in Brooklyn," Bumlets said as Snoddy scribbled the name on the corner of one of his papers.

"Den ya got dat guy down at da tracks," Blink said excitedly.

"I was dere!" Race exclaimed as Skittery growled, "Keep yer trousers on, Kid."

"An' who got it las' night?" Specs asked, rejoining the conversation.

They shrugged, none of them up on the details. Blink ran a sleeve under his running nose as they turned expectantly to Jack. "D'you remember, Cowboy?" Race asked, taking another swig off his cigar.

He'd been sitting quietly in the corner for the duration of the conversation, his thoughts far away. "Why d'ya think I'd know?" he snapped, still sensitive to the idea of the gang that was responsible for the death of his mother and the imprisonment of his father.

The newsies exchanged worried glances. "No special reason, Jack," Blink shrugged. "We jus' knows you pay more attention den we do."

Jack shrugged, still touchy. "It was some guy in Brooklyn again."

Race raised his eyebrow. "Looks like someone's mood's givin' Skitts' a run for its money,

"Shut up," Skittery growled, reaching across the table to smack Race on the head.

"Hey, hey," Blink laughed, standing up to deflect the blow. "Violence ain't da answer…" they all looked at him for a moment before bursting out laughing. Blink was notorious for being one of the quickest to fight, his impulsive nature usually getting the better of him. "Alright, alright, so it _is_ da answer, but not in _Tibby's_." Again, this was followed by more laughter, finally even Jack joining in. Blink had been known to start fights in the restaurant on more than one occasion.

"Jus' si'down, Kid," Jack laughed, forcefully pulling Blink back onto the booth. "Da guy dat was murdered was a bull," Jack explained with a sigh only those nearest him heard. "Dey got 'im in Brooklyn, so yous better be expectin' Spot ta come around again."

"Yeah, ya bettah," Spot's unmistakable voice growled. They turned around to find the leader of Brooklyn fuming, flanked by two of his cronies.

"I don' got nuttin for ya, Spot," Jack answered, the smiles from the other newsies immediately gone.

"Nah, I know dat, Kelly," Spot nodded, his voice full of some suppressed emotion. It was dangerous, and all of the newsies felt it. "I got somethin' fah you." He handed Jack a small piece of paper, a name written on it. "I'm pretty sure dis is da link yous are lookin' fah," he said with some satisfaction as Jack stared at the paper, his mouth slightly open. "'Ta, fellahs," Spot added with a wave of his hand, the malice in his eyes apparent.

"What is it, Jack?" Blink asked, on his knees on the booth, trying to see over Jack's shoulder.

Jack turned towards the other newsies after another moment. His face was decidedly paler than usual. "It seems…" he began hoarsely. "Dat Lewis is goin' afta da fellahs who gots in deir way last time, near da end."

"I was right!" Bumlets and Specs exclaimed.

No one laughed, seeing the grave expression on Jack's face. "What is it, Jack?" Blink asked quietly, him being the closest.

"Dey'se got a few names heah. Apparently Spot got it off a cop. Don' know whedda it's da dead list or people dey wanna find."

"Anybody we know?" Race asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

"Anybody know a Louis Ballat?" Jack asked distractedly, his eyes on another name.

They all shrugged, no one really familiar with it. "Anybody else?"

"Jus…Jus a couple a names heah…" Jack swallowed, not taking his eyes off of the paper. Blink finally managed a look, and quickly glanced back at Mush.

They waited until the rest of the newsies had filtered out, all headed to the Distribution Center for the afternoon edition. Mush tapped Jack's shoulder, and he knew it was useless to try to escape.

"Jack," Blink began, making sure the other newsies were all out. "I saw da pape," he said seriously. "Ya wanna tell me whatcha have ta do wit 'Francis Sullivan.'"

It was with the information Jack had imparted to him that Blink settled into his sofa bed, fighting a wracking cough. The cough had been a new addition to his already serious cold, and it annoyed him greatly. Blink pulled the sheet up around, still absorbing the idea of Jack actually being a "Francis Sullivan," his father an unofficial member of the Lewis gang.

Blink didn't know what he should think about it all. Why hadn't Jack told them before? Granted, they all had their secrets – except Blink. He was sure he had some _somewhere_, he just couldn't remember that. While he'd told the others it didn't bother him, that he was probably better off not knowing, he truly did care. He wanted to know why he was an orphan, wanted to know why he'd been forced to live with his uncle (his stomach turned when he realized he had to make another payment to that man soon), and, especially, just _how_ exactly he'd lost his eye. He thought it was an interesting scar with an equally interesting story.

Blink gave another cough as he readjusted his pillow. At least half of the newsies weren't in yet, so he was going to have to deal with them flying up the stairs later on. He figured he could get in a few extra minutes of sleep if it was immediate.

He was, of course, wrong, as he had come to expect. Kloppman came flying into the lounge, his face white and his hair windblown.

"What's wrong, Klopp?" Blink asked, jumping off of the couch and almost losing his pants in the process.

"I…I never heard anythin' like this before," he gasped, shaking his head.

"Like _what_, Klopp?" Blink demanded, cursing the fact that his suspenders weren't on.

"Dere's an inspection, dey want it to be secret from you boys," Kloppman said in disbelief, shaking his head. "Want to make sure I'm runnin' the place properly."

Blink narrowed his brow, his hand firmly around his too large pants. "An inspection? I don' get it."

"Yeah, well dey're comin' in an hour!" Klopp exclaimed, pulling Blink by the arm. "I need ya ta get upstairs and...tidy it up a bit."

"I can' clean!" Blink laughed. "I ain't never cleaned nothin' in my life!"

"Start now, wit all the boys!" He gave Blink a running start by practically throwing him up the stairs.

Within a half an hour, the bedroom looked significantly better than it had in any of their memories, including Jack's. Blink, for all of his efforts rallying the newsies to clean, was again exiled to the downstairs sofa.

"Dammit," he muttered as he settled back into his sheets, his bad eye facing upwards. All was, comfortably, dark.


	4. The Inspection and the Events Thereafter

They came about fifteen minutes later. Blink was completely asleep, with Kloppman hovering near in anxious anticipation. It was a group of distinguished looking men in business suits, something not seen often in the Manhattan Lodging House.

"And you say you feed the boys?" one of them, a tall man with a beard, asked as they followed Kloppman up the stairs to where the newsies were "sleeping."

"Yes, dinner when dey want it," Kloppman nodded. "I serve it every night, but often dey go out to a restaurant."

"And your rent is…?"

"A nickel a night. Here we are," he pushed open the door quietly, and was relieved to find a clean room filled with peacefully sleeping boys. Kloppman sighed inwardly as the men walked around the room, taking time to examine each boy closely. They did a quick check of the washroom before returning to the doorway, looking slightly disappointed but nodding all the same.

"They seem well taken care of," the bearded man said as Kloppman closed the door. As soon as they all heard the _click_, every newsie jumped from their bed to crowd around the doorway, listening to every word.

"Yes sir, I do my best."

They reached the lounge, passing Blink fast asleep on the sofa as they were about to leave. One of the men who'd been in the back, quiet, the whole time, paused.

"Why is he sleeping down here?" he asked Kloppman, curiously eyeing the barely visible scar on Blink's face.

Kloppman glanced over. "He's sick, and the boys wanted him to stay outta da main room, just in case."

"That's a nasty little scar he's got there," the man continued, now bending over for a better look. Blink, of course, continued to sleep like a log. "How'd he come by it?"

"We don't know," Kloppman shrugged, wondering whether he was in trouble. "He's always had it. One of my boys found him like this, and Kid says he doesn't remember."

"Kid?"

"Oh, sorry, we call him 'Kid Blink.' He doesn't remember his real name."

The man furrowed his brow a bit. "Kid Blink…" he muttered to himself.

"I didn' do it," Blink muttered, turning slightly. He repositioned his head and opened his good eye, staring into an uncomfortably close face. He shot up, almost smashing into it with his head. "I swear, I didn' do it!" he said, more conscious than before.

The man was staring at Blink's good eye, a strange look on his face. Blink looked at him for a moment, his own brow furrowed. This man was strangely familiar to him. He wondered, in a moment of panic, whether he'd stolen from him before, or whether this was a plain clothes police officer.

They stared at each other for a long moment, each trying to figure the other out, when a stair above them creaked. Everyone turned to find Jack standing awkwardly on the third to bottom step.

"Uh…" he gulped, trying to think of an excuse. The silence he and the newsies had heard had convinced them that the inspectors were gone. He realized now, too late, that they'd been wrong. "I jus'...uh…I needed a drink a water…"

From the sofa, Blink raised an eyebrow. Both knew how incredibly lame that excuse was, and inwardly Jack kicked himself.

"Honestly, Jack, ya didn' need ta check on me _again_," Blink said quickly, shaking his head. "Da doctor said dis'll go away in a week," he added with a shrug.

But now the man was surveying Jack with interest, and Jack, too, felt a strange wave of familiarity, though he couldn't pinpoint it.

"You're name's Jack?" the man close to Blink asked. Jack answered with a nod, thinking too hard to speak. "That you're real name?"

"Yeah," Jack lied immediately, "What's yours?"

"Charles," he said, inclining his head. They looked at each other for another moment before Charles turned back to Blink. "Pleasure meeting you," he said politely, and turned to Kloppman, shaking his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Kloppman, the inspection turned out exactly what we wanted. Thank you."

Kloppman breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank _you_, Mr. Lewis. Goodnight."

Charles nodded at his group, and they exited into the night.

"What's wrong wit ya, Jack?" Blink asked slowly, eyeing Jack with apprehension. He was frozen on the stairs, his mouth and eyes wide with shock. "Jack."

He finally looked at Blink, the same surprise on his face. "D'you know who dat was!" he cried, running a hand through his hair.

"He _did_ seem pretty familiar," Blink coughed.

Jack stared at him for a long moment, his turn to furrow his brow as to _where_ exactly Blink had seen that man before. "Dat was Charlie Lewis, Kid. Leader of da Lewis gang! Ya ever heard of it? He's da one dat got outta jail!"

Both Kloppman and Blink's mouths dropped open, and a collective "what the hell!" was heard from behind the doorway upstairs.

"Klopp, why da hell'd ya let 'im in!" Jack moaned, falling heavily onto the stair above him, his hand continuing to run desperately through his hair.

"I, I didn' know, Jack!" Kloppman sputtered, his face pale. "I should get da bulls, dey'll-"

"NO!" Every newsie shouted desperately, including Jack and Blink.

"Oh, right, I forgot all you boys should be in jail," Kloppman sighed. "What should we do?" he asked rhetorically.

"At least dey didn' kill any of us," Blink shrugged optimistically, slightly unnerved that he'd been stared down by the leaders of one of New York's most violent gangs.

Jack was staring at his hands. _Dis is it_, he thought with a shaking sigh. _I gotta get outta here._ He looked up to find Blink surveying him closely, obviously having some idea of what was going through his head. "Not a word," Jack said as he stood, returning to his bunk upstairs. The newsies behind the door scattered, each whispering their own theories as to why the Lewis gang was in their Lodging House.

"Ya ever done somethin' ta da Lewis gang, Klopp?" Blink asked nervously.

Kloppman shook his head, wracking his brain for anything in his past. "Nah, I never did. Did you?"

Blink shrugged. "I can' remember."

_"Aw, don't be like that, Ballatt. The boy's okay. Look, he's winking at you."_

"Go ahead, Joe. Make the kid blink."

_Make the kid blink._

_Kid Blink._

"Blink!"

Someone shouted in his ear. Blink shout into a sitting position, sweat making his undershirt stick closely to him. "Hey, Kid, y'alright?"

Blink groaned as he recognized Jack, allowing himself to fall back onto the pillow. "Not now, Jack, I wanna sleep." He was a little surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded in his ears. Had he been coughing all night? He was also surprised that he had a terrible headache.

"Kid, hey Kid!" Jack called, shaking him on the shoulders. "Don't go back ta bed, ya look terrible."

"Thanks, Jack, right back at ya," Blink growled, trying to escape Jack's clutches.

"No, no, I mean it. Ya feelin' alright?"

"Jack, I haven't felt alright since ya kicked me outta da upstairs, now goodnight."

"Shit, he looks bad."

"I know. Maybe we should find a doctor."

"How we gonna affoid a doctor, Cowboy? We ain't even got enough money ta eat."

"We'll hafta find a way, Race, look at 'im."

"Stop talking," Blink moaned, covering his aching head with a pillow.

"I can' look at 'im if he's actin' like a baby," Race laughed, prying the pillow from Blink's grasp.

"Why can' you fellahs leave me alone, huh?" Blink growled, turning back around to really look at them for the first time. They were both bending over him, making him incredibly uncomfortable. As a rule in the Lodging House, people didn't get too close to you when you were lying down. A lot of the boys had problems with that, for various reasons. No one usually asked. Blink was one of them.

"Cuz ya look like shit, Kid," Race chuckled, an edge of concern to his voice.

"I feel like shit wit ya standin over me like dat," he said, sitting up again. His head immediately began to swim, and he grabbed at whatever he could find to keep from falling back. Jack and Race immediately were at his side, keeping him up.

"Kid, ya need ta see a doctor."

Blink laughed, tightening his grip on their arms as he swung his trembling legs over the side of the sofa. "When ya can get me five bucks, I'll consider. Now if ya'll please get outta my way," Blink groaned as he painfully stood. He barely registered the fact that he was hanging on Race and Jack for dear life. "I got some papes ta sell."

He couldn't remember the last time he felt so weak – no, that wasn't totally true. There had been a few times, after a fight here or there, or when his uncle was _really_ drunk, but never unprovoked. It was all he could do to stand, and he wondered how much effort walking would take. Not that he'd ever complain. Newsies didn't complain. If you were bloodied and dying, you still said you'd been worse, or that you were fine. Hell, they even called what they did a "fine life." He knew exactly what he'd do. He'd milk the obvious illness for what it was worth, selling as fast as possible and cutting in between editions to sleep somewhere on the streets.

His grand plan was smashed as soon as they looked outside. As if biting winds and bitter cold wasn't enough, snow had finally decided to fall.

"Goddammit," Blink snarled, readjusting his hat on his head.


	5. An Atypical Afternoon

DISCLAIMER: (again) Newsies does NOT belong to me. Neither does the Lewis gang. http/www.poisonivory. That's where I got it.

Thanks for your reviews! I really appreciate them, you have no idea! Keep 'em coming, mates, it keeps me going!

Blink's previous statement seemed to be the consensus among the group. Standing out in their moth eaten jackets and gloves, the newsies shook uncontrollably as Weasel slid their papers under a small crack at the Distribution Center window.

"Hope ya're warm, Wease," Jack growled as he collected his usual hundred papers, though even he felt that there wasn't much of a chance of selling that day.

"I am, Cowboy," Weasel's voice answered smugly. Jack gestured to Skittery and Snoddy, and together they succeeded in raising the barely open wooden plank to its full height, allowing freezing snow and rain to pelt Weasel and the Delancey brothers inside. All in all, it was a pretty satisfying experience for the freezing newsies outside.

Slightly disappointed with the headline (which simply preached about the new peace with Spain), the newsies trudged through the freezing snow, almost positive that sales would be considerably down.

Blink ran another sleeve under his nose, hoping that he looked as sick as he felt. Whenever a newsie was injured or ill in some way, they made sure that their customers were aware of it. The sicker a newsie, the more they could rely on pity to sell their papers.

Therefore, he didn't bother to stifle the cough that wracked his body just then, even trying to make it a little harsher. He glanced up with his good eye and was happy to see that his efforts had not been in vain (indeed, he would have been very disappointed if it had, for that particular cough had pretty much cost him his voice).

As it was, he was approached by a heavily bundled man, his hand shoved deep into his coat pockets.

"Need a pape, mister?" he rasped, shocked that only bits of each word came out.

"Yeah," the man's muffled voice answered. "Give ya a nickel if ya're quick about it."

An edition of the _World_ was immediately shoved into the man's face, and Blink received the promised nickel. "Thanks a lot!" he called as the man hurried away, searching with his half gloved hands for his jacket pocket.

Jack, meanwhile, had taken his papers to the nearest train yards, selling them to workers, forced to be out in the snow, as he checked up on tickets. He found exactly what he'd been looking for: One way ticket to Santa Fe, New Mexico, leaving the day after that depending on weather.

Jack's heart skipped a beat. He wasn't going to wait another, but _tomorrow?_ His shoulders sagged slightly, despite the excitement that was racing through him. He'd have to break it to the newsies tonight, or simply leave in the morning never to come back. He wasn't sure how they'd take that, especially the older ones. Blink, Race, Mush, and Skittery had been his best friends among the newsies for years on end, and simply leaving them with no goodbye would be harsh, he knew. Yet, it would also be easier for him.

He told himself that he didn't have a choice. He told himself that Lewis was after him for whatever reason (he wasn't planning on hanging around to find out), and that he needed to leave as inconspicuously as possible, so as not to allow Lewis to get on his trail. There was only one problem: Lewis had known his father, at least relatively well, and chances are that he knew Patrick Sullivan had originated in Santa Fe. Would Lewis dare follow him all the way out west? Jack doubted it, but a small voice in the back of his head continued to remain anxious.

Taking one last look at the departure time (11:00 AM Sharp), Jack set off back in the direction of Manhattan, hoping to make the lunch hour in order to remain unsuspicious in the eyes of his friends.

Blink was continuing to search for his pockets when he heard the oddest sound. At first he contributed it to the fact that he was sure his hearing was going. Then, when it was obvious that, no, his ears were working fine, he looked up to confront what it was.

It was as he suspected, but it made the sight no better. The man who he'd just sold a paper to was lying face down in the snow about twenty yards from him, a man in line with him ten feet away was pocketing a revolver.

Blink's mouth dropped open. "Oh shit," he muttered to himself as the assailant turned his attention towards Blink. "Oh _shit_…"

He didn't wait for the man with the gun to realize what had just happened. Blink, his papers securely under his arm, immediately turned tail and bolted down an alleyway. He could've pretended not to have noticed, but with the snow falling almost silently on the street and the fact that the street he'd been selling on was practically deserted, he didn't think that excuse would've worked.

He tried to ignore the sudden, searing pain in his lungs as he pounded onwards. He glanced back once, just to be sure he'd lost the murderer, when he saw to his dismay that the man was in hot pursuit.

He picked up the pace, racing faster and faster despite the biting cold. It took him another five minutes before he realized that he could no longer breathe. Still running, he clutched at his chest, panting in the cold outside air but receiving nothing. He'd run in the cold before, and this was nothing like he'd ever experienced.

He didn't have time to think. His vision was fading in and out, and the feeling in his chest simply grew tighter and tighter, though he continued to run forward.

At last he couldn't take it any more. He fell to his knees, gasping desperately for air. He'd never been in such pain, not even the time Oscar and Morris had chanced upon him asleep in an alleyway, and he wasn't even being touched. He glanced up in his pain and noticed two booted feet stop right by his eye.

The snow began to pick up when he was a few blocks from _Tibby's_. Sighing, Jack tugged his hat tighter on his head and quickened his pace. Unfortunately, he wasn't watching where he was going, and therefore tripped over something large in the snow.

Grunting with anger, he turned to see what he'd tripped over. It was Blink.

The Lodging House was a mess of confusion. Jack had dragged the unconscious Blink to _Tibby's_, where the rest of the boys jumped to his aide, carrying Blink back to the House.

"We need a doctor an' we need it _now_!" Jack insisted, trying to make himself heard over their frantic voices.

"Who's closest ta us?" Mush cried, halfway out the door.

"Before we get a doctor we gotta get money!" Skittery declared, rushing in from the wash room with a basin of water. Race was at his heels with towels and dry clothes, donated by a variety of newsies.

Blink was set on Race's bed, still unconscious. Gingerly, Jack removed Blink's eye patch, trying not to notice the severe scrapes and bruises adorning his friend's face.

"Can' we just get da doctor den soak 'im so he don' remember?" Race offered as he sat by his bed, taking the basin Skittery put on the floor. He began washing the cuts on Blink's face as the others deliberated on what to do about the doctor.

"Shut up, Race!" Skittery snapped. "What about Klopp?"

Jack handed Race more towels, his eyes not leaving Blink's face.

"We can' hit 'im up foah da money," Bumlets said fairly as he ushered the younger newsies out of the room. The last thing they needed now was chaos. "He jus' got inspected. It'll look suspicious."

"How much does Blink have on 'im?" Snoddy asked practically.

"Ya honestly think they'd leave 'im with anythin'?" Race growled, checking Blink's pockets anyway. He looked up grimly. "S'as I thought. Nuttin."

"He's barely breathin!" Mush exclaimed, desperate to hurry the proceeding. "He needs a doctor!"

Snoddy ran a hand through his hair. "We can't," he sighed, his hand moving to his face, "afford a doctor. We'll jus' hafta wait it out."

"He _can'_," Skittery growled. "He's sick, not jus' cos da soakin'."

"He'll hafta wait it out!" Snoddy repeated, obviously not liking that idea anymore than anyone else. He heaved another sigh and added quietly, "It's all dat we can do."

"Wait!" Jack said suddenly, rising quickly to his feet. Without another word, without any thought, he hurried to the washroom, unloosened his brick, and grabbed his tin can, heavy with coins. He didn't look at the picture of his family.

He jammed the can into Mush's hand, pushing him to the doorway. "Do it fast, Mush," he ordered hoarsely. He returned to Blink's side without looking at anyone. No one else said a thing, and waited silently for the doctor to come.

He finally did, Mush practically on top of him. Jack tried not to notice the sound of coins in the doctor's pocket as he brushed the newsies around Blink's bed aside.

He was there for over an hour, his brow furrowing every now and then. He seemed to be upset about the fact that Blink was unconscious. At first, he had wiped clean the many abrasions on Blink's body. It was obvious that he'd been beaten up, and by the looks of things he'd been in no condition to retaliate. It was lucky for him that he hadn't been killed, for they had all seen beatings before and knew that Blink had been pretty damned close to death.

The outward injuries were quickly taken care of, the doctor assuring them that no serious injuries were present. This relieved them until they realized that the doctor hadn't left. In fact, he'd only grown more concerned. He listened closely to Blink's breathing, took his pulse, a felt for a fever.

A few times, Blink, though unconscious, began coughing terribly, and the doctor frowned even further when he noticed blood on the pillowcase. The newsies were paralyzed with terror. They'd heard of "consumption," the illness that caused the lungs to bleed and almost always killed.

"Doc…" Race swallowed, practically on the doctor's shoulder. "Does he got…?"

"No," the doctor replied distractedly, interested in the abnormal bluish tint to Blink's skin. "It's not consumption." The breath of relief was audible. Kloppman, hovering in the doorway, wiped his brow with his handkerchief. "Who knows his habits well?" the doctor asked, at last surveying the crowd.

They all turned to Jack, though each newsie knew Blink almost better than themselves.

"Very well," the doctor continued. "Tell me, does he smoke often?" Jack nodded enthusiastically. Almost all of the newsies smoked constantly throughout the day when they could get their hands on cigarettes. Often they forewent meals for a pack. "And how often does he drink alcohol?"

"Often," Jack shrugged. The doctor seemed to be surprised, but none of the newises were. Drinking was almost as common as smoking.

The doctor nodded and next pulled out his stethoscope, which all of the newsies found incredibly interesting. Most had never been to a real doctor before, and many were suppressing an impulse to grab it and examine it further. The doctor concentrated it on one side of Blink's chest, his expression always grim. "Rales," he muttered to himself with a little nod. Jack and the others thought he was talking about the train yards.

The doctor finally sat back. "I would like to hospitalize him," he said upfront and abruptly.

The newsies stared at him. "We can' affoid no hospital," Race said in the same tone.

The doctor shrugged. "If you want him to heal, he's going to have. He has what's called pneumonia, atypical. Luckily he's young, but with these further injuries we can't be sure. In the hospital he can be treated. Besides, if he stays, you never know if one of you will get it. Pneumonia kills."

They exchanged glances. "We can' affoid no hospital," Jack sighed, glancing down at Blink.

The doctor considered them for a moment. "Look," he began slowly, "I'm going to tell you this honestly. If he doesn't get hospital treatment, chances are he's not going to make it. If it were spring or summer, it's be different. But it's winter, and he's vulnerable enough now. I can commit him to the Refuge free of charge. It's not as good as a hospital, but they have medical facilities that will look after him to some extent."

Jack was already shaking his head, but Skittery held out his hand. "But as soon as he's better he'll be allowed out, right? I mean, no little stuff he did in da past'll matter?"

The doctor nodded. "I'll do my best to make sure of that. They'll probably comply, but he'll stay there until he's perfectly healthy, unless a blood relative comes to retrieve him. That's all there is to it. Commit him tomorrow, I'll send along a note and talk to the Warden. Today, give him plenty of water and do not stop him from coughing. He needs to. The blood was only a result of the injuries today, not of the pneumonia, so don't be afraid." He stood, replacing his hat on his head. "Good luck, boys," he offered, following Kloppman down the stairs.


	6. A Few Awakenings

OK friends. I'm having a lot of trouble with paragraphs breaks (like, when I want to switch scenes and go to flashbacks and stuff. Bear with me, I'm really trying.

THANK YOU SO MUCH to all you amazing reviewers! You have no idea how much those mean to me (or maybe you do, but still). Thanks so much, and keep 'em comin! They make me smile when I should be studying for exams (like right now, hahahaa…..)

Jack opted to sit with Blink the rest of the day, seeing as that would probably be the roughest. He cursed the cold draft that was leaking through the windows, causing the unconscious boy in the bed to shiver even further. Jack had already piled blankets from ten beds on top of Blink, but he knew it wasn't enough. As much as he loved Kloppman, it was common knowledge that the Lodging House blankets were moth eaten sheets, too ratty to be of real use. On cold winter night, most newsies slept with every piece of clothing they owned, save for suspenders, but Blink was dressed only in under clothes that were too big for him. His own clothes were still soaked with snow and blood.

Jack tried not to look at the empty tin can that lay forgotten on the floor. All of his savings, all of his earnings, gone. He'd worked for months to reach the proper sum, and within seconds it had been taken from him. Not that he begrudged Blink the help. Hell, he'd have given Blink, or any of his newsies for that matter, his arm if he had too, but to lose it to one lousy doctor was hard on him.

He was torn from his thoughts by a small moan from Race's bed. As soon as Blink's eye was open, it was clear to even Jack that he was extremely feverish. It only opened halfway and he looked not altogether conscious.

"Kid," Jack said softly, leaning over so Blink could see him without moving. He didn't say anything comprehensible. With sweat pouring down his face, he seemed to be trying to figure out where he was. "Kid, it's Jack. Y'alright?"

Blink continued to look around, his face becoming slightly panicky. "He had a gun," he muttered.

"I know, s'alright, Kid, he's gone now," Jack nodded. "Look at me, Kid. Can ya see me?"

Blink's eyelid flickered closed, staying that way for another ten minutes. At last it opened again. This time, Jack noted, it was less dazed and more focused. He seemed aware of where he was, though how much he remembered remained to be seen.

"How ya doin', Kid?" Jack tried again in the same soft voice.

"Dat you, Jack?" he asked, his voice incredibly weak. Jack was shocked at the sudden change.

"S'me, Kid, everythin's fine. Ya know where y'are?"

Blink managed a small nod, his face contorting slightly in pain at the movement. He quickly checked the impulse, and Jack couldn't help but smile a little. A newsie never admitted weakness even at the brink of death.

"How ya feelin?"?

Blink forced a smile. "A million bucks…You?"

"Can' complain," Jack answered with a small breath of relief. "D'ya need anythin?"

He tried to shrug. "Don't think so." He attempted to readjust himself on the pillow, but found that impossible. His energy was completely gone, replaced by agonizing weakness. "Dey…get da guy?"

"We don' need ta talk about it, Kid-"

"Ya know…you're dyin ta…know," Blink smiled. "I don' mind…Cowboy…it ain' dat bad or nothin."

"I guess it _is_ impoitant, if we're gonna soak dat fellah," Jack conceded. "Ya sure ya wanna tell me?"

"Yep…" Blink said, closing his eye. He waited a moment, and then asked in confusion, "where's me patch?"

"We took it off. You was a mess. Ya still are," he added for good measure. "An even da doctor thought so."

"Doctor!" Blink coughed, his eye shooting open. "Ya called a _doctor_? Where…in da hell…did ya git da money?"

Jack tried to shrug nonchalantly. "Couple o' us had some lyin' around. Thought ya might need it."

Blink stared at him for a few moments. "You're money for Santa Fe…"

Again, Jack tried to shrug it off. "It ain' much ta me. I mean, now youse owe me a big favor, right?"

"Right," Blink said feebly, guilt washing over him. He shouldn't have gone out. None of this would have happened if he'd listened to Jack in the first place and stayed in the Lodging House.

"Ya ready ta talk, Kid?"

"Yeah…yeah I'm ready."

………...He glanced up in his pain and noticed two booted feet stop right by his eye. His face was freezing in the snow, but he didn't have the strength to move it. The boots shifted, and soon his line of vision included two knees and arms.

"What'd you see, kid?" a burly voice asked, grabbing him by the back of the neck.

"Nothin," he gasped.

"He's lyin," someone else, someone Blink couldn't see, remarked.

"No shit," the burly voice beside him grunted sarcastically. "I didn' hire you to try to think, Bill."

As amusing as the exchange had been, Blink desperately needed to return to the Lodging House. His breath, while a tad easier as he was immobile, was only providing him with enough energy to not pass out. He knew that if he gained the Lodging House he'd be, somehow, taken care of. Kloppman always knew what to do.

"So, kid. What did you see?" the man was demanding again, shaking him roughly by the shoulders.

"I didn' see nothin!" Blink reiterated desperately, his voice high and weak in his ears.

"I'm in a generous mood today, kid," the man growled, his face at last coming into Blink's view. Blink's mouth dropped open. It was the man from the inspection, the man Jack had said was Charlie Lewis. _Oh shit…_ Blink thought for the thousandth time. "So I'm gonna ask you one more time. You tell me exactly what you saw, and I'll let you walk."

Blink's original response was to emit a wracking cough, one that he'd desperately been trying to suppress. God, it was painful. "Some fellah," he managed at last, his head pounding, "got shot an' da shooter saw me."

"Who was the shooter?"

"I dunno," Blink answered honestly, but the uncomfortable hand on his neck caused him to add, "but I'm bettin' it was you since ya got me face down in da snow." Race always told him he was too impulsive for his own good (though Race didn't use "impulsive"). It'd gotten him into trouble loads of times, but he'd always been able to worm his way out of them. This time, he regretted opening his mouth, as he knew that there were no newsies around to help him. For the thousandth-and-one time, Blink thought dismally, _oh shit…_

Lewis stared at him for a few moments, not in shock, but in thought. _Great going, Kid, ya jus' insulted da most powerful fellah in NewYork,_ Blink thought, closing his eye for a moment.

"Do you know who I am, kid?" Lewis said in a dangerously soft voice, leaning uncomfortably close to Blink's face.

_Yes._ "No," he answered, thinking that Race would be proud of him for controlling himself.

"Would you like to educate him, Joe?" Lewis asked, standing and moving out of Blink's eye sight.

"Always a pleasure, Charlie," a new voice, the voice Blink recognized as the bearded man, answered with an obvious sneer.

Perhaps it was because he was already incredibly weak that, after the first few hits, he ceased to really feel the pain. He felt each hit, a hard pressure on some part of his body accompanied by a dull feeling, though sometimes it'd be sharp, but generally he was alright. It wasn't the worst thing he'd felt by far, and as he began slipping out of consciousness he realized that, somehow, it was almost a blessing. The cold now was nonexistent, so a nice rest and maybe a sleep was welcomed.

That was until a well-placed kick sent him onto his back. For a long moment, as he lay there panting, the dull pain and pressure was gone.

"Look, Charlie!" Joe said, pointing down at Blink's face. He could barely see them, his swollen eye only able to open to a slit.

"It's that boy from the House…" Lewis mused to himself, staring at Blink with an intensity that sent an emotion piercing through Blink's lethargy: fear…and that odd, familiar feeling that he'd felt the last time. "Lift the patch," he ordered finally.

Out of everything that happened to him in the hell that he called Manhattan, he never, _ever_ liked people to look at the scar. Jack was the only person aside from his uncle and a few others to have seen it. Even Mush and Race, his two best friends out of all the newsies (excepting Jack) had never seen it. In fact, it was a running mystery in the Lodging House what was behind it, whether it was just a gag or something worse. Blink, when asked, would only grin mischievously at them and shrug.

Now, however, he was in no condition to grin or shrug. He jerked back to alert life and began to struggle. Both Lewis and Joe were only watching him, and in his desperation he actually managed to move. He began by scrambling clumsily on all fours, lifting himself up only when he was five feet from them. He was terribly weak with almost no air, and was easily overtaken.

Joe was on him within seconds, forcing him facedown onto the ground. The large man's body was overwhelming him, knocking the little breath he had away from him.

"Kid's got guts, Charlie," Joe laughed as he pinned Blink, who continued to struggle, to the ground.

"Mm-hm," Lewis answered, focused on something else entirely. "Make him stop and take the patch off."

"Right," Joe answered. The next thing Blink was aware of was a large, meaty hand wrapping itself around his neck and squeezing. Blink continued to struggle feebly for a few moments, but soon the need for air caused his arms to travel towards his neck. "Behave," Joe breathed in his ear, "or I'll go someplace worse."

Blink was immediately limp, the fight forced out of him. "Good boy," Joe snickered, removing his hand from Blink's throat and forcing him onto his back. He remained kneeled over him, making sure Blink stayed where he was.

"Take it off," Lewis repeated, his eyes never leaving Blink's face.

To resist would have been folly, and Blink, despite his impulsiveness and desperation, knew it. His chest heaving, his breath coming in gasps and tears coming to his eye, could only lay vulnerable as Joe ripped the eye patch off of his face.

Blink shut his eye to the look he knew he'd find on their faces. It'd been the same with his uncle and even with Jack; that horror, disgust. He hated that, couldn't stand it.

He knew exactly what Lewis and Joe, and whoever the hell that third guy was, were seeing. Uneven, crude scars running over what was left of the eyelid. It would look obviously hollow, for it was sunken, no eyeball underneath to support it. He'd looked at it himself a couple of time, and even _he_ thought it disgusting.

The one thing Blink wasn't expecting was what Lewis next said: "Perfect…" he muttered with some sort of suppressed emotion. "Joe, d'you know who this is?"

"Kid from the newsboys?"

"Even better. This is Ballat's kid. Remember?"

Blink froze, slowly opening his good eye. _Ballat?_ Why did that name sound so familiar to him? It hit deep into the pit of his stomach, the rest of the pain gone. Ballat.

"What's it matter?" Joe was saying. "He's gonna die within minutes. Look at 'im. What's the point?"

Lewis was nodding. "At least it won't be obvious, what with the Silverman affair earlier. Do him some more, just to be sure." With that, Lewis walked away, leaving Blink in the merciless hands of Joe. Oddly enough, this _also_ was strangely familiar, and despite the sudden, excruciating onslaught, Blink had one thing going through his mind: Ballat.

It wasn't until he felt another hard kick in his ribs minutes later that he finally submitted to the darkness.


	7. The Current State of Things

**Sorry it's short, but it being Thanksgiving and all….well, I'm sorry. Next time it'll be better I promise. THANK YOU to everyone who's reviewed! Spread the word, and if you're reading this, _please_ review, even if it's bad! As fellow authors, you know how important reviews are!**

Blink suddenly fell into sweating and hacking that night in Kloppman's bed. The caretaker had opted to stay on the couch in the lobby so that Blink could have the most comfort possible. Mush, Race, Skittery, and Jack had been taking turns watching him, and he began coughing on Skittery's watch.

"Jack…" Skittery said slowly, smacking the knee of the "sleeping" cowboy behind him. "Shouldn' we stop 'im?"

"Doctor said no," Mush offered morosely, looking as if he preferred the first idea.

"Ballat…" Blink muttered in between coughs, moving onto his side in his sleep. Jack, in his corner, sighed as Mush and the others leaned (at a safe distance) close to hear what Blink was saying. He hadn't been able to finish his story earlier. He'd told Jack that he'd witnessed a Lewis gang murder (Race was extremely put out when he learned of that. His status as the only newsie to have been at such a momentous occasion was marred), and that they'd left him to die to spare themselves the blame for _his _murder, but other than that the details were incredibly vague.

Jack hadn't told him that he had pneumonia. He'd agreed with the other boys to let him remain calm throughout the night. They figured that was the most important thing if he was to get better (which, though he would never say it aloud, Jack was beginning to doubt). The problem was that most kids on the street who got pneumonia rarely survived it, and those who did were too frail to be of any use. Jack's only hope was that, since they'd found a doctor, everything was going to be better.

_But da Refuge? Ta get better in? Dat ain't gonna happen…_ Jack sighed to himself. The truth of the matter was that most kids who went into the Refuge came out only the worse for it. Jack, in his turn, had seen strong, healthy kids not even make it out. Jack knew that Blink ordinarily would have toughed himself through it, but with pneumonia…it didn't seem likely.

"Race, gimme one o' dem towels, wouldja?" Skittery ordered without taking his eyes off of Blink's face. "We gotta get dis fever down."

"How d'you know so much about doctoring, Skitts?" Race mumbled as he threw a wet towel at Skittery.

"I was good friend's wit a nurse a while back," he shrugged as he put the towel on Blink's forehead. "She told me some stuff-"

"For a favor or two," Mush winked. Skittery used his free hand to hit him hard on the head.

"Was she dat cute blonde ya had for a while?" Mush continued in interest.

"Nah, she was da brunette-"

"Fire…" Blink muttered, suddenly grabbing out at Skittery's arm.

"Ow…"

"No…leave her alone…"

"What da hell's he talking abou'?" Race wondered, edging closer.

"People fahget where dey are in a fever," Skittery shrugged, trying (but failing) to wrench his arm from Blink's hold. "Dey sometimes tink dey're in another time."

"Dere goes da nurse again. Honestly, Skitts, just become a doctor an save us all da price!" Race exclaimed.

"I'd charge ya more, Race," Skittery answered with a growl as he continued his feeble attempts at saving his aching arm. "Now shut up so I can hear 'im."

"Why ya wanna listen in?" Mush asked, though he, too, was leaning closer to the bed. "Shouldn' he have his privacy?"

"Listen, Mush," Skittery snapped. "Kid don' even know what happened in his past, righ'? We'll save 'im da trouble a never knowin and tell him tomorrow."

"No you won'," Jack finally offered from his corner. "We find anythin' out we leave it between us, hear me?"

They glanced at each other. "Sure, Cowboy," Race shrugged. "No need ta get snappy."

"It's jus…" Jack paused, unsure of what to say. "He…it might be bettah dat he don' know. Ya see dat scar? I bet it ain't something he wants ta remember, ya know?"

"Jack…" Race began, looking at the others for a moment. "Jack, we'se all got stuff we don' like ta talk abou', but we can' jus erase it from 'im. I mean…I don' know abou' yous guys, but da stuff dat happened ta me…well, I'se glad it did. Cos it brought me heah and hell, heah's bettah den what it was."

"Same, Jack," Skittery shrugged. "I don' like my past anymore dan you all like yours, but I ain't jus gonna fahget it anyday, so I live wit it."

"But ya think Blink wants ta live wit it?" Jack asked. "If we all had a choice, would we wanna live wit ours?"

"Get it away, get it away…" Blink mumbled again, his grip on Skittery's arm tightening. His free hand shot to his scarred eye.

"Does dat sound like something you'd wanna remember?"

"He's gotta right ta know, Jack," Mush said quietly.

"You all know Blink. He might be a different person if he finds out. Ya want dat ta happen?"

Jack had struck hard. Nobody wanted Blink to change. After Jack, he was probably the most popular newsie in the group. Perhaps his carefree nature and optimism was a result of his amnesia. The fact that he couldn't remember the horrors of his past might have been the reason that he laughed and smiled all the time. The newsies didn't know what he was like before whatever had happened, so how could they know how he would change?

"We don' tell 'im a thing," Jack reiterated, and none of them fought it, though they looked down-hearted and beaten.

"Gimme another towel," Skittery ordered quietly, and Race obliged without a word.

"Dis don' feel right," Jack said under his breath as he and some of the others watched the Refuge's doors close behind Blink, the doctor, and Warden Snyder.

"We had no choice," Skittery repeated for what seemed like the millionth time that morning. "If we'd kept 'im wit us…"

"But it feels like we jus' makin it worse," Jack insisted. "Ya know what happens ta kids in dere…"

"He'll have a doctor," Snoddy said matter of factly. "And besides, whaddya wanna do, run in their after him? Snyder even sees yer_ hat_ an ya won't get outta there til you're twenty-one."

"Wait…wait jus a second…" Jack paused, his mouth slowly opening.

"Ya can' pretend ta be a doctor an go in afta 'im, Cowboy," Race sighed. "We tried dat wit Bumlets, it didn' woik, remember?"

"No, no, dat ain' what I mean…" Jack leaned up against the wall, running a hand down his face. "How da hell is we s'pposed ta get 'im out when he's better if none a us can set foot in Snyder's path?"

They froze, staring at him dumbly. Just then the doctor from the day before walked out, paying his respects to Snyder on his way. As he passed the newsies they heard him mutter, "damn fool of a man…"

"Doc," Jack called, rushing after him. "Hey, doc?"

The doctor turned and nodded in recognition. "Kelly, right?"

"Dat's right," Jack nodded an continued earnestly, "hey doc, how's we s'pposed ta get 'im outta dere when he's better? Ain' none a us dat can set foot in dere widout bein arrested."

"First of all, Mr. Kelly," the doctor sighed, not noticing the scattered laughter at Jack being addressed like that, "to be perfectly honest with you, it doesn't seem as if your friend, Mr…"

"Blink."

"Right. It doesn't seem like he actually _will_ be getting better. The pneumonia is pretty severe, but I could, in theory, treat him. Obviously, there would be life long complications, but some would say that's better than death."

Jack glanced at the others. "So how's dat make it so he won' get bettah?" Race pressed.

"I'm not allowed access to him while he's in there," he said, making a sharp gesture towards the Refuge. "The warden, Snyder, says that he has his own doctors."

There was a huge uproar. "He's jus doin dat so he don' hafta pay!" Jack insisted angrily. "Blink's gonna die cos he's a tightwad!"

"I had no idea the Refuge was like this…" the doctor sighed. "If I'd known…" He looked up at all of their desperate faces. "Look, boys. I'm truly sorry about this, but right now there's nothing I can do while he's in there."

"We can get 'im out!" Mush cried. "Cowboy's done it!"

The doctor was already shaking his head. "He's too weak to sneak out of there, and the only legal way is to be a family member. Unless you have one his family lying around, you're out of luck."

"Ya mean _Blink_'s outta luck," Race snarled.

"Again, I'm sorry. Good luck," he added, turning and walking quickly down the street.

"Dis is stupid!" Race exclaimed, smacking his hand off of the wall.

"We's gotta get family…?" Mush blinked. "Almost none a us even's gotta family. Nobody knows if Blink does, he never talks about it."

"He does got family," Jack said slowly. "He told me while I was teachin 'im ta sell."

"Let's go, den!" Mush said quickly as Skittery mused, "I thought he didn' remember."

"We can' go and dis family member happened after…whatever happened _happened_."

"Dat don' make no sense," Dutchy said, shaking his head.

"Why can' we go?" Mush insisted. "C'mon, Jack, it's for Blink!"

"Who is it, Jack?" Race pushed.

"He's got a uncle…" Jack sighed.

"Perfect! Uncles are good enough!" Mush nodded enthusiastically.

Jack sighed again. "But he lives in Brooklyn."

"Just leave him on the bed. A nurse will be in tomorrow, I think," a strange voice sounded in his ears. Dazed as he was, Blink was immediately aware of a cold draft unlike the Lodging House. He slowly opened his eye to look around. He was definitely not in the Lodging House.

He tried to sit up, to speak, but nothing happened. He couldn't move or even breathe. "Jack…" he rasped, but even that small word was painful. He was colder than he'd ever been, and he groped for the blankets around him, pulling them up to his chin. That's when he realized that he was wearing what seemed like an incredibly long, white shirt. His clothes, the clothes he always wore without fail, were gone.

His first reaction was that he didn't want to know what happened. He wanted just to pass quietly away, and somehow he knew he had that option. But the idea of someone taking his clothes, the only ones he owned, right off of his body, overrode any rational feelings.

With every ounce of strength that he possessed, Blink forced himself out of whatever it was he was lying on. When he hit the floor, he realized that he'd been on a wooden bed frame. Not thinking about it, he managed himself into what resembled a standing position, and finally got a good look around. His heart froze inside his already freezing body: the Refuge.

He'd know that place anywhere. He'd once spent two months in there after covering for Jack with the bulls, and he'd vowed never to return. He wracked his brain for any idea as to what he'd done to deserve it (he thought of a lot of things). He couldn't, however, remember anything recent enough for them to catch him. The past few days he'd spent mostly on the Lodging House sofa. Kloppman had even charged him cheaper rent since he hadn't been taking up a bed. Was that a crime? Was Kloppman in the state penitentiary and Blink in the Refuge for three cents instead of five? Blink didn't find that too hard to believe. All he knew was that he would _not_ stay in the Refuge. He'd get out or die; either was preferable to being trapped inside.

Falling and stumbling, using the other wooden bunks for support, Blink made his way painfully to the door. He was mere feet from it when a hand gripped his shoulder tightly.

"Amusing, boy, but how far did you think you could have gone?"

"Pretty damn far," he answered with a growl, and was spun roughly around to face exactly who he expected.

"I'm afraid you will be staying with us for a _long_ time," Warden Snyder said with a malicious grin.


	8. Seeking Refuge

**I apologize for the delay. It's finals week and I'm starting to go slightly insane, but that's why we have Newsies, right? RIGHT! Ok…remember: PLEASE review this if you read it! I need them please please!**

**And to all of you wonderful reviewers: thank you so much! You have no idea how much I enjoy reading them. Keep 'em coming (and Aly, if you're reading this, I finished this chapter whilst thou wast playing Mario Party :) )**

"Da prodigal son retoined, boys," the unmistakable voice of Spot Conlon rang out clear into the crisp afternoon air. "Fin'lly decided ta fess up abou' da Lewis gang, den, Kelly?"

"Nice ta see ya too, Spot," Jack called out wearily. He and Skittery, the two newsies brave enough to venture over the Brooklyn bridge (and the two who had sold the most papers that morning), had known from the moment they'd set foot on it that they were being watched. If Manhattan was known as the most welcoming district for newsies (and it was) Brooklyn was known to have the largest network. Brooklyn itself was by far the toughest place in New York City, and one definitely had to have their wits about them when traveling through.

Skittery was one of the bravest newsies, though generally a loner by choice, yet he found himself incredibly grateful that Jack was next to him. Jack was the only one of them who seemed comfortable in Brooklyn, though he had told Skittery Blink may have been there more than any of the other Manhattan newsies. If Jack's information and guesses were correct, Blink had made the trip to Brooklyn many times in the years they'd known him.

Jack had decided that, instead of trying to avoid Spot and getting caught anyway (because Jack had no doubt that the Brooklyn leader would somehow find them), they would go directly to him. That way, Spot would hopefully get an ego boost and divulge the information that Jack and Skittery so desperately needed.

"Y'ain't denyin it," Spot said, waving off his bodyguards. "So dey's got somethin ta do wit you bein heah, Kelly?"

"Yes an no," Jack allowed. "Can we sit?"

"Skittery, righ?" Spot said, eyeing him sharply.

"Dat's right," Skittery answered in the same proud tone. Though he had the advantage of height by far, Skittery still felt intimidated.

"Sit down befoah I change me mind," he ordered, and Jack motioned for Skittery to obey.

Blink had never been so cold in all of his life. Sure, there had been times when he'd slept out on the street in the dead of winter, his fingers stinging so terribly that he'd been sure they'd fall off but this…this cold chilled straight through him. It reached his lungs with its icy grip, forbidding him from taking a proper breath.

Every other minute or so, he let out a dry, weak cough which sent shivers down his spine and sharp pain racing up his chest.

"Humiliating to be in such a state, isn't it, Mr. Blink?" Snyder's voice egged on, and if Blink hadn't felt humiliated before the warden spoke, he certainly did afterwards. There was something in Snyder's voice and his eyes, the way they stared at you, that completely robbed you of any dignity and left you feeling worthless and vulnerable.

Blink, as always, didn't respond. He simply closed his eye and gripped the meager sheets closer around him. The hospital ward of the Refuge. Jack used to say that if they took you from the main area of lodging to the sick wing you would never be seen on the earth alive again. Blink trusted Jack; he'd been in the Refuge longer and more times than anyone else. So Blink, knowing full well what to expect from the hospital ward, wasn't at all surprised at the steady flux of boys being brought in when another died.

Blink refused to die. He didn't know why, knew he really had nothing to live for, but didn't feel like giving Snyder the pleasure of having the city supply him with more money for a "burial." No, Blink decided that he wanted to give Snyder as much trouble as possible until neither could fight any longer. And besides, Blink had yet to have a few of the girls down on their side of the Brooklyn Bridge, and he wasn't about to miss that.

"Blink's got a uncle, den, eh?" Spot mused, feigning ignorance. "Nice ta know one a ya boys gots a fam'ly, Kelly."

"One a da lucky ones, I guess," Jack allowed, shrugging.

Spot snorted. "Don' know if I'd call havin dat old pervert as a uncle lucky."

"So ya _do_ know 'im?" Jack interjected quickly. Skittery's eyes brightened as Spot scowled.

"Guess I do after all," Spot said casually. "Ya soah ya wanna meet 'im? He's a real piece o' woik, Jackie-boy, I'm tellin' ya."

"We gotta get Blink outta da Refuge, Spot," Jack insisted. "Ya know how it can get in dere-"

"Uh-uh," Spot said, shaking his head. "I ain' never got caught like you, Jackie-boy."

"Course," Jack nodded, fighting off an urge to roll his eyes. He needed Spot completely on his side. The leader of Brooklyn was hard to convince to get help, and any mistake could cost them everything they worked for.

Spot grinned. "Ya're desperate, Jack. Dat's obvious." Both Jack and Skittery held their breaths. This was the deciding moment for their cause. Spot shrugged. "Why da hell not? I ain' got nuttin' bettah ta do."

The hellhole that they found themselves in front of fifteen minutes later could barely even be categorized as a shack. Jack and Skittery, both used to poverty and street living, exchanged an unsure glance.

"Ya _sure_ dis is where Blink went?" Skittery asked in slight disbelief.

"Ya tink I don' have anyone who comes inta my Brooklyn followed?" Spot asked rhetorically, walked without fear up to the door and banging on it with his cane. "Ballat!" he called forcefully, stepping back into a comfortable position. When there was no answer, Jack stepped up next to him, but said nothing. Spot was not deterred. "Ballat!" he called again. "Git yer filthy ass out heah righ' now!"

"Wazzat damn noise?" a rough, husky voice rasped from behind the door. "Dat Spot Conlon?"

« Yeah, and I said to get yer ass out heah _now_, Ballat."

At first Jack didn't think the man would listen (why should he? Spot was just a kid), but to his and Skittery's intense amazement, the wood of the door was yanked aside, and a slightly overweight, hairy man stepped out onto the porch.

"S'cold out heah, Conlon, whaddya want wit me now?"

Spot nodded towards Jack. "Da boys from Hattan are gettin' yer help. Ain' dat nice o ya, Ballat?"

Ballat simply blinked in disbelief at him. "Ya tellin' me what ta do, kid?"

"Name's _Conlon_, Ballat," Spot said quietly, taking a step closer to the much larger man. "An' yeah; I'm tellin' ya what ta do, so get yer damn coat, put on some shoes, an follow dese boys back ta Hattan. Dey'll 'splain exactly whatchya gonna do when ya get dere."

Spot turned on his heel, leaving Ballat staring at him with his mouth open. "Oh, by da way, Ballat," Spot called over his shoulder as he exited the premises. "One ting goes outta place, yer dead. Got it?"

"I got it, Spot," Ballat stammered.

"Take it away, Jackie-boy," Spot called, and Jack turned back to face Ballat. "Ya heard 'im. Get some pants on an be out here, cos we ain' waitin."

Ballat stood on the stoop a moment longer, as if contemplating exactly what to do. Finally, he turned around, and within minutes he was back on the stoop with a large pair of pants and boots on his feet. "Lead on den, boys," he scowled, but followed them when they walked.

It was painful to move, but he was so cold he felt he had no choice. Trying desperately to move onto his side, some reprieve from the biting chill constantly gnawing at his face, Blink gripped the wooden bed frame and heaved himself over. It didn't last long, for the pain was so poignant that he immediately fell back onto his side, wincing. "As if da pneumonia wasn' enough…" he muttered miserably, his bruised ribs smarting against the hard metal.

"So ya figured it was pneumonia den, Kid?"

Blink stopped trying to move and lay motionless on the bed.

"Cantcha hear me, Kid?"

"Jack…?" Blink tried, unable to believe it.

"Whaddya say, Kid?" Blink turned his head to the window that was about five feet from his bed. Sure enough, Jack Kelly's face was smiling from behind the bars. "Ya gotta be freezin, Kid, dis window's open."

"I think Snyder's tryin' ta kill me," Blink managed a laugh.

"S'it workin?" Jack asked, the smile slightly fading.

"Don' need da cold ta make me die, Jack," Blink shrugged. "Whaddya doin' here?"

"Bustin' ya out," Jack said simply. "Can ya get outta da window? Dese bars are rusty enough, an' I know dere's one witout a couple somewheres."

"Jack…" Blink sighed, trying in vain again to move.

"Can' move?"

Blink shook his head.

"Not a problem, we gotta backup."

"Dough I'd rather not use 'im," another voice muttered.

"Dat _Skitts_?" Blink laughed. "Ya kiddin' me? What're ya doin' here, Skitts?"

"Breakin' ya out," Skittery's voice answered uncomfortably. "An I'm freezin' so we's gotta getta move on."

"Wait, wait," Blink interjected in confusion. "Who's da backup? None a yous can get in here."

"Very true, Kid," Jack nodded in mock solemnity. "Very true. But we gots someone who _can_ come in, an' if I'm righ' he's abou ta enter…"

"What are ya talkin' abou-?" Blink began, but was cut off by heavy footsteps and Snyder's protesting voice: "You cannot take him; he is still very ill."

"We'll see abou' _dat_," an all too familiar voice answered gruffly. Blink looked in panic over at the window.

"Tell me ya didn' get me uncle, Cowboy," he begged in desperation. "Tell me ya didn' get 'im…"

"Dere y'are, Kid!" Ballat voice pounded as he threw open the door. Blink turned slowly from the window to face him. "Feelin' alright?"

"Yeah," he lied, both looking each other in the eye.

"Do you know this man?" Snyder insisted, desperate that Blink say no.

For a moment, Blink weighed his options. On the one hand, staying in the Refuge and freezing to death wasn't exactly ideal, but going back with his uncle to Brooklyn, too weak to fight back, was practically suicide. _Jack's outside_… he reassured himself as he nodded, feeling as if he was condemning himself to death. "Yeah I know 'im. He's me uncle."

"Dammit," Snyder muttered and turned away from Blink as Ballat stepped forward and said, "I'll be up in two minutes. Git yer shit an' git ready ta leave."

"I will be down shortly, Ballat," Snyder said slowly, and Ballat closed the door behind him. "Mr. Blink," Snyder began when they were alone. "I have a question about your friend-"

"He ain' my friend; he's me uncle," Blink mumbled, feeling as if he were about to walk to his doom.

"No, not that friend, Mr. Blink," Snyder continued, walking over to the window where Jack had been. Blink spun to look, but, sure enough, Jack's face was gone. "What was the name of the boy who was outside this window?"

"Wh-what?" Blink stammered as Snyder returned to his bedside.

"I have two minutes and in that time you will tell me all that there is to know about that boy."

"Dere ain' nothin' ta know cos I'se got no idea what yer talkin' about," Blink insisted.

"Oh, I think you do, and when I'm finished with you, I think that you are going to want to tell me everything you know."

Jack was perched on the one side of the window, and despite everything he was feeling he refused to move. To give himself up would be to jeopardize not only himself, but Skittery and Blink as well. So in spite of what was going on inside the practically deserted hospital wing, he remained at his post.

"Who was that boy you were just speaking to?"

"I wasn'-"

"Was that Francis Sullivan?"

"Who-yes! Yes alrigh' it was! It was Sullivan!"

Jack's heart was pounding. All Snyder had to do was get enough of information out of Blink and he was a goner. He'd either be back in the Refuge or out of Manhatten forever.

"I knew it," he heard Snyder mutter. "How do you know him?"

"I ain' answerin' dat-"

"_How do you know him?_"

Jack closed his eyes as he heard Blink's sharp intake of breath. "Helped me…long time ago…"

"Where does he live?" Snyder demanded.

"I…I don' know."

"_Tell me_."

"I don' know! I don' know!"

Jack ran a hand across his face. Despite the bitter cold, sweat was beginning to form on his face.

"Alright! Alright! I _do_ know!" Jack held his breath as he heard Blink gasping for more. "He lives in da Lodging House for newsies…down…down in Harlem. I used ta go down dere before I got me job in Hattan. He…he helped me out a lot an I still talk to 'im a lot…"

"You called him 'Cowboy.'"

"No, I called 'im 'Teddy-boy.' Dat's his nickname; Teddy, cos a how he got outta here and all."

Jack could barely breathe. He wasn't sure of what Blink had just gone through, but he had a good idea that whatever Snyder had done had been painful. Yet Blink, despite all of that, had refused to tell the truth and expose Jack to Snyder. In all of his years on the street, he'd never known anything like it.

There was a knock on the door. "Ya better be outta dat bed, Kid," Ballat's voice snarled as he walked apparently walked through the door.

"I was just leaving, Mr. Ballat," Jack heard Snyder say, and as his footsteps receded Jack spared a glance, though he knew that Snyder had an idea as to where he was hiding. Sure enough, the warden was gone from the room, and Ballat was standing impatiently at the foot of Blink's bed.

"Aintcha ready ta leave yet?"

Blink didn't say anything as Jack tugged the rope, motioning Skittery to pull him up. They had to hurry if they were to be by the door when Blink and Ballat left. Jack missed whatever happened next as he and Skittery raced across the rooftops, taking momentary shelter on a butchery nearby.

"What were dey doin' ta him, Jack?" Skittery asked quietly as Jack watched the doorway to the Refuge like a hawk.

"Dunno," he said, shaking his head. "Whatever it was, I'm gonna kill dat bastard next time I see 'im…"

"I bets I know…" Skittery muttered, a dark, closed expression over his eyes. He noticed Jack looking at him closely and shrugged. "But I ain' Race; I'm prob'ly wrong."

"Well whaddya think dey was doin?"

Skittery shook his head. "Don' wanna talk about it. Like I said; I was prob'ly wrong."

"Here he comes," Skittery said after a moment, and sure enough, the door to the Refuge swung open revealing Blink in the middle of Ballat and some other man that neither Jack nor Skittery could make out.

"We'se safe now," Jack said as the door closed again. "Let's follow dem; we told Ballat where ta leave 'im."

"Ya think we can get 'im back ta health?" Skittery asked as they climbed down the butchery's fire escape.

Jack offered a shrug. "No idea," he said before he jumped onto the snow-ridden ground. "But I'd rather he die wit us den wit Snyder."

"D'ya really think Blink's gonna die?" Skittery said in an odd voice as they reached the front of the building.

Jack stole a glance and say that Ballat, Blink, and the other man were moving slowly. But they were moving away from the rendezvous point. Jack couldn't figure out why.

"Jack," Skittery insisted, grabbing Jack's arm for emphasis. "Do you think Blink's gonna die?"

Jack turned to face him. "I…I dunno, Skitts, maybe. Shit happens, righ?"

"Right…" Skittery blinked slowly, his eyes wandering back to Blink. "Where dey takin' 'im?"

Jack returned to them, and knew for certain that Ballat was hurrying away from the meeting point. "What da hell ya doin, Ballat?" he muttered to himself as he walked quickly from their hiding spot, Skittery on his tail.

Ballat was moving through an alleyway, Blink dragged between him and the other man. Jack and Skittery glanced around the corner, watching them from a safe distance.

"Who's dat other fellah?" Skittery frowned. "I didn' see 'im before."

"Me either," Jack muttered. "I don' like this, Skitts."

"Dey're movin," Skittery warned, and they began to walk closer to the trio.

Ballat and the other man walked a little longer, and then paused at an intersection on 42nd street. This gave Skittery and Jack enough time to get a closer look. "Can ya hear what dey're sayin?" Jack asked, but Skittery held up a hand.

"Jack," he said slowly. "Ain' dat da fellah who was inspectin' us?"

Jack whirled around. "What?" And then it hit him. "Ballat…" he muttered. "Louis Ballat…"

"Ballat's name's Louis?"

"I dunno….it's jus…" Jack ran a cold hand across his brow.

"_Dey'se got a few names heah. Apparently Spot got it off a cop. Don' know whedda it's da dead list or people dey wanna find."_

"_Anybody we know?" Race asked, a hint of worry in his voice._

"_Anybody know a Louis Ballat?" Jack asked distractedly, his eyes on another name._

"Shit…shit, shit shit…"

"What?" Skittery demanded.

"Why didn' I tink of it?"

"Think of _what_, Jack?"

Jack glanced up at where Ballat and Blink were standing. "Spot gave us a list o names awhile back, an one o dem was named Louis Ballat."

"But…I thought those was people dey wanted ta kill."

"Nah," Jack said, shaking his head. "Dey's people dey jus want."

Jack and Skittery backed up out of sight as Blink was dragged off, unconscious, with Ballat and Charlie Lewis.


End file.
